


So I Have Something Left

by yaladytauriel



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, boys i die, i love amelie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 14:31:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14404116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaladytauriel/pseuds/yaladytauriel
Summary: Amelie has come back, and it is time to heal.





	So I Have Something Left

_Maybe_ , Amelie thought, _things will be better._

She lay on her side in a hospital bed, monitors beeping, an IV in her arm, Angela’s notes scattered across one of the bedside tables.

And flowers. From everyone. A bouquet of white lilies from Ana and Fareeah, hospital daisies dyed blue from Jack (he was always shit with gifts, she remembered), a tall bough of orchids from the Shimadas, fresh cherry blossoms on the branch, dark purple tulips, multicolored roses, garish orange somethings from Lena and Emily, someone’s herbs from their garden, even three yellow puffs of dandelion from the bastion.

She reached out for the pills Angela left on the table, and caught a glimpse of her still-violet skin, though it was fading. Soon, they promised, she would be back to her rosy pallor.

She took the pills, and settled in for sleep.

\--

_Gabriel was gone, she’d seen it in the scope. Olivia had disappeared, and now Moira and Akande were hiding just underneath her nest in the Talon laboratory._

_Widowmaker raised her gun and sucked in a breath, aiming for a little girl who’d just hopped out of a large mech -_

_“Don’t move, Lacroix.”_

_She felt the barrel of a gun, cold against her neck, and hissed, letting the gun fall to the floor. “Jack. I’ve waited for this.” She turned and smiled coldly. He’d evaded capture too long. “Here to kill me?”_

_“No, sadly. Angela sent me to save you.”_

\--

At some point, Olivia visited, leaving nothing but a holographic picture frame and a note. Sorry.

The frame cycled through the photos, five of Amelie and Gerard, the sixth of a press release for Giselle, with Amelie in the title role. _My last,_ she thought, then corrected herself. _For now_.

Angela said the ballet would come sooner than later, but it wouldn’t be easy. “Still, you’ll be back on the stage before you know it!”

\--

_Widowmaker was held in a small prison cell while her fate was decided. “No, no trial!” Angela insisted. She pulled her coat tighter around her. “Not until I can save her!”_

_“Angela, there’s nothing left to save!” Jack was pacing. “They stopped her heart, took her_ emotions _, Angela. She’ll die before Amelie comes back.”_

_Angela sighed, looking into the cell. That woman had once been her friend, someone to share lunches with, someone to talk to about the horrors of doctoring and the terrible patients she’d get. Someone to tell about dates, plans for marriage. Now…_

_She studied the woman in the cell. Pale, nearly-purple skin, yellow eyes… she didn’t look human._

_“I have to try. She can’t stay like this.”_

\--

The doctor herself stopped by. She didn’t say much, only took vitals, but Amelie was pleased nonetheless. Angela’s bedside manner was far better than Moira’s.

\--

She rested on Hanzo’s shoulder during her release, her skin nearly its old porcelain.

“The guilt takes the longest,” he said, watching his brother and Angela talk over the doctor’s desk.

“I know.” Amelie tried to smile. “They always say so.”

Each of them knew something of guilt. At least she wasn’t alone in that.

\--

_“Amelie!”_

_The youngest Guillard snapped her head up from the barre she practiced at. “Oui, mama?” she called._

_“Come meet your new nephew!”_

_Amelie sighed and bent to unlace her pointe shoes, then left the studio she’d finally convinced her father to add onto the chateau. She tiptoed through the long hallways and shadowed arches, hurrying to the dining room, where she heard her family chittering._

_“Amelie! You spend too much time in that studio,” her father reprimanded._

_“Sorry, papa.” She hung her head. Some ballerinas spent twelve hours in the studio - fourteen-year-old Amelie was lucky to get twelve uninterrupted minutes._

_“Amelie, come meet little Luc! Oh, Camille, he’s a delight.”_

_Amelie sighed to herself, but approached her sister and her sister’s new baby._ One day, _she thought,_ one day I’ll be out of here.

\--

The chateau had never felt like home.

Now, with dust clinging to every surface, it felt even less so, but she unpacked what little she had and put it in her childhood bedroom, still painted a lush velvet pink. Not the mater bedroom, in its somber blues and heavy curtains.

She went to the wine cellar and found a good year, then drank in the kitchen from an untouched glass.

Unbidden, a tear came, then several, each for the lives she’d taken, the lives she’d lost, the lives she might have saved had they left her anything of herself.

There, at the head of her family’s ancient oak dining table, Amelie Lacroix wept for the first time in a decade.

\--

_“Oh, pardon me!” Amelie, for all her grace on the stage, had no peripheral awareness - tunnel vision, her directors called it. She bent to pick up the papers she’d knocked from the small table._

_“Quite alright,” a man said. “It’s noth-”_

_She’d stopped, too, staring at the man in a crisp black suit, a little Overwatch pin on the left lapel. “I… hello.”_

_“Amelie Guillard?”_

_He knew her? “Yes?”_

_He laughed. “Sorry, I saw your performance last night. You were a vision!”_

_She was just Snowflake #3 in_ The Nutcracker _, but if he said so… “Well, merci, monsieur.”_

_“What are you doing on an Overwatch base?” He took the papers from her hands, rearranging them in his own stack._

_“Signing up for the entertainment corps. I heard it’s good money, you know…”_

_“I’ll get you there. Gerard Lacroix, by the way.”_

\--

Dancing came soon after her release, but it was infinite in its frustrations. The medicines made her weak, she’d forgotten the steps, the barre broke under her weight the first week. She’d had to fix it herself.

But it was the last thing she had. She kept going, because what else could she do?

\--

It took weeks, but she began to garden again. At first, it was just upkeep, but soon, she had a vegetable garden, then something showier, colorful flowers everywhere, and the apple tree started bearing fruit again. Herbs and chickens came next, and climbing roses, and soon, she spent hours reading amongst the high walls of the garden.

\--

_Blood, not hers, on her hands._

_She kept running, down the stairs, away from the apartment, away from the body of the agent she’d killed._

_She didn’t run fast enough._

\--

Baking came with the garden, almost second nature once she had chickens laying and fresh rosemary at her fingertips. But she kept most of it, at least at first.

When Angela visited for Amelie’s wellness checkups, she went back to Switzerland with a basket full of breads. Jesse, Ana, Satya, they all left with sourdough from her mother’s starter. Jack insisted he didn’t need any, but they ate a loaf together anyway, with fresh greens from her garden. Lena and Emily came with Christmas gifts and left with holiday breads.

\--

_Widowmaker had no emotions, she feared nothing, and yet Olivia Colomar got under her violet skin._

_It was the little things, the taunts, the girl’s lack of discretion. Stealing food from the fridge, her insufferable puppet shows._

\--

“I want to live here,” Olivia said.

“You don’t like me.” Amelie set a plate of biscuits, frosted yellow, on the table.

The ‘former’ hacker grabbed one and bit into it, chewing while she spoke. “I didn’t like _Widowmaker_ , but now you’re a sweet French widow with a nice house and a _killer_ internet connection. I make money, I can pay the rent.”

“‘Sweet French widow?’” Amelie smirked.

“Yeah, you’ve got _chickens_ , you’re not a monster anymore.” She took another biscuit. “You down?”

Amelie thought. She probably needed more company than once-a-month visits from Angela and whoever happened to be in France at that moment, if anyone. She knew from years of experience that Olivia largely kept to herself. “Fine. But no police. If you get caught, I’m not involved.”

\--

They visited Gabriel’s grave together, in the middle of a hot Los Angeles winter. Olivia was quiet for a long time.

“He was like a father to me,” she finally said.

Amelie said nothing. She hated cemeteries.

“Funny right? He’s this, like, _terrorist_ , but he was the only dad I’ve ever had. He’d get on me if my quarters were messy, you remember his bad coffee I’d always drink? He-” she sniffed. “Damn, I told myself I wasn’t gonna cry.”

Amelie placed a hand on Olivia’s shoulder. “You can cry here. It’s a graveyard.”


End file.
